


Feast

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: (whispers) angst, Angst, M/M, and some smut, did I already say angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: It starts as a whisper somewhere in the back of his mind. A soft voice that speaks of dreams and longing, of what-ifs and why-nots. It disguises itself as a gentle caress, promising to offer comfort, and it feels like a light breeze that blows against his skin on a sunny day. Timmy bathes in it, but –he should know better by now.





	Feast

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some angst I needed to rid myself of. If you want the full ride, I'd recommend listening to "I Know" by Placebo.
> 
> It's short, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. (Yes, I could hear the innuendo when I wrote this sentence.)
> 
> All of this is fictional. I truly hope, at least.

_“I know_

_The past will catch you up as you run faster_

_I know”_

_– Placebo_

***

It starts as a whisper somewhere in the back of his mind. A soft voice that speaks of dreams and longing, of what-ifs and why-nots. It disguises itself as a gentle caress, promising to offer comfort, and it feels like a light breeze that blows against his skin on a sunny day. Timmy bathes in it, but–

_he should know better by now._

It _always_ starts as a whisper, only to sneak up on him slowly: _the hunger_ , the emptiness that somehow fills his insides with cold. It’s an ache, a foul one that grinds at his tummy, chest, mind. It never leaves, never _gives,_ not until he feasts.

 _I’m doing better_ , he’d thought, hitting the two-month mark. He’d almost reached the three-month one, this time. _Almost._

He gives in to the whisper, allows for it to spread by feeding it with memories of days long passed. They still hurt, bittersweet as ever, but he too desperately longs for the sweet to give up the bitter.

He knows he shouldn’t, but uncaps the lube anyway, pours a ridiculous amount of it on his long, thin fingers. He whimpers when he breaches his body, rubs his cock into the sheets, ever so slowly. Cries out when he comes, always to the same memory.

Yet _this_ never satiates his hunger – his own pale hands running over milky skin, pinching pink nipples, grabbing his throat in vain. He imagines a pair of different hands, at first gentle, even the second and third time they’re gentle, make him moan softly; the tenth time they leave bruises, instead. They make Timmy beg and scream, make him take it.

Even his dreams he turns into nightmares, or maybe it’s _time_ that does. It’ll get worse before it can get better, he knows. He fucking knows.

The passing of time has made him cruel, to himself and others.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s been here, even this time. Does this mark twenty, now? The hands only bruise more.

He throws the lube aside and lifts his hips to grant himself better access; slips thin digits between his cheeks, presses one against his opening. His curls lay flat on the pillow, messy and ruined. He wishes Armie could see him now.

He picks up his phone with his other hand, the one that’s not occupied with _something else,_ and scrolls through his contacts until ‘Sir’ is looking back at him. ‘Sir’ with big blue eyes and a perfectly chiseled jaw. (He’d chosen the name just to taunt Armie; it had made him blush all the way to his chest. The way Armie couldn’t look at him for a day after it happened had made Timmy’s insides tingle.) He fucking knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself or, more precisely _, doesn’t want to_ , so he presses ‘Call’.

Armie answers after the third ring. “Heyy, Timmy. Great to hear from you!”

He sounds so care-free that Timmy almost hangs up; it’s not what he needs, not now. He wants Armie pining, swallowing regret and choking on words unsaid. He didn’t call to know Armie can be happy without him; he called to confirm that he wasn’t.

He can still roll with this, though.

“Hey there, big guy.” Timmy’s voice is raspy, and he hopes Armie doesn’t mistake it for sleepiness. He should know better by now. “Long time no see. I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah, man, it’s been weeks,” Armie replies, still cheerful, but Timmy can sense the subtle shift in his tone; he clings to it like a leech, wishing to draw more blood.

“You haven’t called.”

“I’m sorry, Timmy. I’ve been–”

“Too busy for me?” Timmy cuts in and hears Armie quiet, then swallow heavily.

“I’m never too busy for you.” There’s an undertone of sadness to his voice and Timmy should feel more ashamed of how giddy it makes him. He circles his hole before pushing one well-lubed finger in, lets his head fall back as he tries to stifle a moan.

“I’m sorry,” Timmy breathes, “I know. What were you doing? Just now?”

“Now? When you called? In the garden, we were just finishing up lunch with Liz and the kids. Ford–,” Armie swallows, rambling to lighten the mood, “I swear, Ford can’t _ever_ wear white clothes again, or light clothes, or anything that tomato sauce can ruin. There hasn’t been one occasion of him not spilling it. Only red shirts for him from now on.”

Timmy imagines Armie sitting in the sunny garden with his family, sprinklers going off in the distance to wet perfect green grass. They even have a white picket fence, an American dream. It makes him feel sick, wrong all over, so he withdraws his hand.

“Tomato sauce?”

“Yeah, yeah, had some pasta and steak. Red wine, too, but Ford doesn’t have to worry about that, for now at least.”

Armie sounds cheerful again, his light chuckle suffocates Timmy. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t give up that easily.

“Was the pasta as good as it was in Italy?” He licks his lips, anticipant.

“You know it never is.” _A ray of light, then._

“You remember that small pizzeria we went to on that–“

“Wednesday,” Armie finishes, “that Wednesday.”

“Yeah, that Wednesday.”

Silence stretches between them and it hurts deliciously. He knows the memories are playing out in Armie’s mind like they are in his, memories of them talking, touching, surely more than was allowed. Memories of the life Armie wanted but didn’t think he deserved. Timmy wished he’d dared to take and wreck him, so he’d have something tangible.

“You should’ve fucked me that Wednesday,” Timmy says as he arches his back, presses two fingers into his hole to the first knuckle; he breathes out slowly, then continues, pushes as far as he can reach. It hurts deliciously, too.

“Don’t say that. Never fucking say that, Timmy.”

“I would’ve let you.”

He hears Armie’s steps, a car door opening and shutting, then all sounds become muted. He smiles involuntarily. The damage has been done and even if Armie dared to forget him for a minute, he couldn’t now. Timmy works his fingers in and out, pace quickening to how fast Armie would do it, angry and desperate. He’d ruin him although he wouldn’t want to, yet that would only make it better.

“I would’ve let you,” Timmy says again.

“Please don’t,” Armie finally manages, voice soft and broken. The pained silence that follows feeds him much like Armie’s sadness does, each sob and cracked syllable making him feel full again. He’s so tired of feeling empty.

“You could’ve fucked me in Elio’s bed,” he whimpers, adding a third finger. “I would’ve been so good for you, so pliant.”

Armie makes a strangled noise.

“I wanted you to come in me. You could’ve claimed me, fucked me until I was raw and open.” _But you didn’t. I fucking hate you for it._

“Timmy,” and it sounds like a plea; it only makes Timmy move his hand faster, three fingers in and out and he’s practically sobbing. _It hurts_ , but he’s not sure _what_ exactly – is it his name on Armie’s tongue, or that he’ll never taste it again?

“You should’ve ruined me.” Timmy’s voice is strained as he imagines Armie fucking him into the squeaky mattress on Elio’s bed, leaving bruises in the shape of his hands on Timmy’s narrow hips, making Timmy drool on the sheets because it was so good, so good. He’d barely be able to take it, saying ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ with lines blurred where Elio starts and Timmy ends. He’d barely be able to take it, Timmy thinks, pushing a fourth finger in. It’s too much and it’s not enough and Armie is saying nothing, only breathing. Even _this_ he couldn’t give Timmy, not even now.

Anger mixed with arousal – it boils over in his tummy, and he turns his head to the side, bites into his pillow as he comes; he’s silent as the orgasm shakes through his thin body, thick rivulets of milky white decorating his delicate skin. He’s panting, but he hopes Armie can’t hear it; he’s crying, but at least he knows Armie can’t see it.

Still, after he’s calmed down, he asks, voice wet, “Why didn’t you? Ruin me?”

He hears Armie sniff on the other end, he’s sure he’s crying, too. It no longer makes him happy, perhaps it never did.

Several more moments pass before Armie answers, voice equally wet, “Because I fucking love you.” He says it as a tired man, a beaten man; one that’s needed to say those very same words so many times before, knowing they make no difference, knowing he’ll have to say them again and again, and again. They’ll never make a difference.

Timmy nods, quietly, keeps nodding as the tears fall down his cheeks, as his lashes stick together like glue. He finally withdraws his hand, the lube feeling tacky on his fingers, so he wipes them on his sheets.

“I’m sorry,” he says through the tears, chin trembling from the effort of holding them back for a mere minute.

“I know you are.”

The sadness covers them like tar, it’s suffocating and sticky, almost impossible to wash off. Timmy is glad Armie can’t see him now – he’s still a mess, but no longer beautiful. Desperation makes us all ugly.

Armie never hangs up first, not when Timmy calls. So, he waits, they both wait until Timmy feels full again, of Armie’s longing for him, of so many words still unsaid, actions not taken.

There’ll come a time when he must feast again, but for now, they can both _be_. Together in their suffering until one of them forgets, if only for a day, only to be reminded by the other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Your comments mean the world to me, xx.
> 
> @workslikeacharmie on tumblr


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